The World According to Lovino
by SheyenneEve
Summary: Daily doses of Lovino's thoughts, feelings, and life in general. There will be lots of laughs as Lovino writes out his feelings for therapy. Get ready to laugh, cry, and everything in between! Entries are short (most of the time) and sweet (in a way only Lovino can be)! [Warning: Language Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia]
1. Entry 1

**Author's Note:**

**Ciao bella!**

**This is a completely in-the-moment type story! I thought, Lovino's life through a journal sounds like an interesting plot! Sounds good, let's do it, etc. I get ambitious sometimes and one day it's going to be my downfall, as I already have a couple other stories! But for now, let's just enjoy my juggling around trying to write all of the stories I have! So wish me luck!**

**~The World According to Lovino~**

* * *

_Ciao _dia- I mean JOURNAL,

Lovino here. Before you ask, no it was not _my_ idea to start a dia- journal! It was my stupid- yeah Feli! If you ever find and read this di-JOURNAL! And I know you're going to look for it, so fuck you!- brother's idea. He says it's a "_Ve~! Great way!" Watch me puke rainbows and fucking butterflies! _to vent and release all of that pent up emotion I refuse to express aloud.

Whatever. How dare he say I have_ issues_! WTF?! Just because he and some damned _therapist_- yeah, Feliciano Veneziano Vargas got me to go to group therapy, which did not go over well- say I need a way to vent, I'm stuck writing in this atrocious thing for God knows how long! He's the one with the German Potato boyfriend! Seriously, how can Feli tell _me_ what to do? I'm older, I'll vent if I want to and where I want to! I will not vent in this _stupid_ journal! I won't even write in it. No way! I could have taken kick boxing or some fighting class to vent, but Feli said it was too fucking _dangerous_, as I already had a pretty volatile temper and kick boxing would lead me to more physical fights.

...

_Shit._

I said I wouldn't write in it and I already wrote a fucking _essay!_

I do feel a bit better though, but just a little. Maybe I will keep this di- journal!

-Lovino Romano Vargas


	2. Entry 2

**Author's Note:**

**Ciao bella! **

**So now I've decided to once again type out entries ahead of time so I don't have to rush and write one at 3am with only Cup-of-Noodles as my friend- Not that that's happened! Aha... Anyways, school is here so I'll try my best to stay ahead! Well, here's what you've all been waiting for!**

* * *

_Ciao_ dia-JOURNAL,

Lovino here. I just want to say what the Hell is wrong with some of the people in this town?! Seriously? Fucking animals! But, wait. I'm getting ahead of myself. I'll start at the beginning. (And Feli. Incase you're reading this, I'll make myself clear. I'm only venting in here because it was the closest thing I have to a phone at the moment!)

I'm walking back home from the local farmers market (since I, Lovino _Capo Cuoco_ Vargas, only uses the finest ingredients when cooking) when I bump into this jerk who sends me, and my bag of fresh as fuck ingredients, falling to the ground. I looked (glared) up, ready to cuss out the ass who made me fall when I noticed the little fucker snickering. When I got a better look at him, I noticed a few things. First off, he was pale as fuck with snowy white hair, though he looked about my age. Second, he was NOT apologizing but rather laughing his ass off in a way only a true moron could. And lastly, he was stepping on one of the finest things- no, THE finest thing- on the entire planet, like it was no big deal! _My tomatoes!_ I gathered my things quickly, not wanting that ass to step on another precious fruit.

Finally, after laughing his pale ass off for a good ten minutes, he managed to choke out a sentence,"_Kesese!_ Hey Franny! Francis! Look! Get a load of this guy! He's so red! Hurry, he might blow up!" Though he spoke fluent English, there was just the tiniest hint of a German-esque accent, but not like Ludwig Van German's accent, more..._ Prussian?_

Out of fucking _no where_, blue-eyed male with shoulder-length blond hair and slight chin stubble emerged from the crowded market. A bouquet in hand.

_"Mon ami, _Gilbert! You brute! How could you just push this innocent, young-" _Finally_, I thought, _a guy on my side,_"- _delicious_ man on the floor. _Save it for the bedroom. Ohonhon!" _He laughed and offered me a _rose._

_..._

Did I ever tell you how much I _hate_ the French?

Not wanting to stay for the rest of the 'Gilbert and Francis Show', I did what any other pissed Italian would do. I flipped them off and made sure to remember their faces for when I sick the _mafia_ on them.

I angrily stormed across the street, not even caring whether I was _supposed_ to be crossing when I saw headlights, heard a horn, and felt like I was flying... then crashed landed. On the pavement.

What. The. Fuck.

Luckily the idiot driver hadn't been going _that_ fast so I wasn't hurt really. _At least_, I looked back to the pair laughing half a block away, _nothing but my pride_.

"_Lo siento!_ I did not see you there! The light was green so I was going and then... and then," a stranger, whom I presumed was the driver of the hit and ... well _not_ run incident leaned over me, no doubt checking for injuries. There was a trace of a Spanish accent in his voice, no doubt originating from Spain. I had a thing for Spanish accents... but like _Hell_ I'd tell him that! He could have _killed_ me! So I resorted to the next best thing. Yelling. And lots of it.

" 'And then' what?" I shouted, " you thought, _hey this guy looks like a fucking ghost, let's test it out?!_" I brushed him off and stood, albeit shakily, and glared into the eyes of my would-be killer.

_And then... and then, I... I melted_.

Pools of emerald greeted me, eyebrows knitted with concern. Surrounding those eyes was a face. A beautiful, tan face. With chocolate-brown curls falling around the face like curtains, pulled back revealing the sun- _Whoa! I sound like one if Feliciano's romance novels! I need to relax. It was just a guy. A GUY._

I picked up the shattered remains of my groceries (and pride) when I noticed something wedged, and crushed, under the tire of his fucking killing machine of a car. A phone. My phone.

...

Now I am a very reasonable person. So I calmly walked back up to the Spaniard, stomped on his foot (hopefully hard enough to cause some serious damage), and left.

DAMMIT! THAT PHONE HAD ALL OF MY CONTACTS AND SHIT! AND PICTURES AND SHIT! DID I FUCKING MENTION SHIT?!

I could hear the Albino Asshole and French Fucker congratulating the... the, the Spanish Bastard. What the heck?! They all knew each other? Great. Fan-fucking-tastic.

The last thing I heard was, "Good job, Toni. _Kesese_!" and "_Mon cher,_ Tonio. You are amazing!" before I rounded the corner.

So now I'm home AND I'm going to have to eat out, probably at that café across the street, since my dinner has been totaled. Much unlike that Spanish bastard's car!

...

Fuck. My. Life.

Until next time bitches,

Lovino


End file.
